Ghost
by Ronnie James Dio
Summary: A story of the beautiful, enigmatic Witch of the Wilds and the Grey Warden who learned to dance to the enchanting music she plays.
1. Vagrant

Addendum:_Revised 5/3/10. Expect updates, I suppose. I just can't resist. =)_

_Special thanks to those who've left comments. I always enjoy hearing what others think. _

* * *

1 – _Vagrant_

The wind whipped its way through the trees, icy and sharp, stealing away what few leaves remained to the great oaks, maples, and few rare birches of the forest; only the stalwart evergreens stood defiantly against the bone-chilling cold. Aside from the wind howling in the shorter man's ears, the silence of the road was almost deafening; few creatures roamed to disturb the calm, nearly all yet hidden away, in their holes, trees or dens, against the morning's biting chill. His cloak was warm, his hood pulled tight, but the wind was harsh and unforgiving, battering the rough wool against his cheek. In these low hills of Amaranthine, winter had arrived with a vengeance.

Two men walked this road alone today, both bundled tightly against the cold, leading their packhorses steadily along beneath the gray pre-dawn sky. Both were tall, really, but one was especially so, standing half a hand taller than his companion, who appeared decidedly wider. The latter certainly was stockier in truth, but this impression was enhanced by the heavy silverite armor that he wore beneath his hooded cloak. He was the elder of the two, this armored man, by some many years – his face, though never truly handsome, now bore many lines of age, though he bore them well.

His companion was taller, darker, possessed of an imperfect but distinct physical beauty marred by a deep and livid scar across the outer edge of his right eye, extending vertically to the jaw line. The long hilt of a serrated qunari blade extended high over his left shoulder; another long, curved blade of Dalish make rested easily on his left hip, ready to be freed at a moment's notice. He wore no armor, carried no shield; he was a lean man with a wiry sort of strength, an unholy terror on the battlefield with the grace of a dancer, the power and finesse of a jungle cat.

Unlikely companions, perhaps, were these two soldiers. Noble sons of Ferelden both, peerless leaders and unmatched warriors. The elder had spent the many years of his long life in service to his country, risen from farmer to general, from general to one of the greatest heroes Ferelden had ever known. Today, however, Loghain Mac Tir followed a different path – the younger man at his side commanded.

This man was Darius Cousland, a former lord of Highever, though he no longer named himself as such. To his few friends, he was simply Darius – to the people of Ferelden, he was the Warden Commander, slayer of the Archdemon and vanquisher of the Fourth Blight, and both the title and the responsibility set increasingly ill with him.

Unlikely companions, yes, and even more unlikely friends. It was a friendship born first and foremost of mutual respect – any real affection was markedly slow in growing. Unsurprising, considering that these men had spent the better part of the preceding year as bitter enemies, opposing generals in a civil war that had threatened to engulf all of Ferelden. But grow it had, and if they did not love one another, they had, at the least, grown to be easy in each other's company.

For his part, Loghain had come to admire the Warden Commander a great deal, despite the boy's relative youth. Darius was quick-witted, extraordinarily clever and well-spoken, with an infectious smile that made him difficult to dislike, but he was a hard man, much more like Maric than the dead king's bastard child. Unlike Alistair, Darius was no idealist; his leadership was bolstered by a sometimes harsh pragmatism, tempered by his growing knowledge and experience of the world. For that, Loghain respected him. He would have given much for the young Cousland's sobering influence before the disaster at Ostagar. Ironic, really. Loghain would never have imagined that somewhere in that camp walked a young man destined to rise against him, to defeat him in single combat before the eyes of the Landsmeet. What if Darius Cousland had not survived Ostagar, or had shared the fate of his family? Would there be a Ferelden left now to defend?

_Perhaps not, _he thought.

_Almost certainly not,_ said a stern voice at the back of his mind. He could not disagree, and it shamed him, though not so much as it might have, once. Many things could be said of Loghain Mac Tir, both good and ill, as often true as not, but never that his pride clouded his ability to exercise good sense. He had not believed the Wardens' claims that a Blight had come upon them. He had been wrong. He'd made mistakes. Maker, he'd made enough mistakes in his life to fill ten wagons. Twenty. But he'd done his duty, as he saw it. He always had, and he always would.

The wind suddenly began to pick up, cutting an angry swath across the road like a frigid blade. His armor was icy cold on his skin, even through the thick sweat-dampened wool beneath it, but he did not regret his decision to wear it. Even with the Blight ended, Amaranthine was dangerous country, plagued by bands of darkspawn and bandits beyond count. He considered it a small miracle that they had not yet been accosted, though he supposed that even bandits and darkspawn would hesitate to brave this sort of weather. Even when the sun's rays finally reached them, they would provide little warmth. He could picture his own appearance, black hair soaked with the sweat of exertion in spite of the cold, silverite armor gleaming beneath a lined and chapped face, turned beet red by the frigid morning wind. Assuredly, he looked ridiculous. But ridiculous was better than dead. If the whelp wanted to wander about in these hazardous parts without a shred of even cured leather to defend him, that was his business.

_I decide to walk about like that, and I'm dead in an hour,_ he mused, a touch irritably. He had never possessed the equal of the young Warden Commander's agility or almost preternatural evasiveness, even in his prime, and he envied it. Loghain knew himself to be something of a blunt instrument in battle. A very effective one, to be sure, but blunt and ungainly nonetheless. He was a practiced and careful swordsman, efficient and without flourish, whereas the younger man was a maelstrom of whirling blades and severed enemy appendages, courting death as he dealt it in droves. Battle was a fine art to Darius Cousland; to Loghain, it was merely a vocation.

The packhorse whinnied uncomfortably in the harsh wind, and he soothed her mechanically, patting her mane with a gauntleted hand. The taller man at his side was silent, staring straight ahead woodenly. The Warden Commander's eyes had become haunted and distant of late – he ate little and slept less. Perhaps the weight of his new responsibilities set heavily with him, but Loghain did not think it so. No, the young Warden's eyes were haunted not by fear or doubt, but by loss. A raven-haired sorceress filled his thoughts.

Loghain's ears pricked up sharply at the sound of approaching feet. Someone – or something – was approaching, swiftly, through the trees to the right. He quickly unlimbered his sword and shield, preparing for conflict.

"It's just Will," said Darius' deep, measured voice.

Loghain relaxed, sheathing his blade at the sight of the mabari darting out of the trees. The dog ran happy circles around his master, settling into a plodding walk at his side. The cold seemed to bother the hound not at all.

"Didn't find any darkspawn, I suppose," Loghain deadpanned, breathing laboriously. The dog yipped sharply in acknowledgement.

"We must be getting close to the keep," said Darius.

"To be so lucky," said Loghain dryly. His bones seemed to creak with every step. Perhaps he was getting soft in his age, but a fire would be blessedly welcome.

"How long do you expect to stay?"

"Long enough to get warm, at any rate," he replied. Truly, he had no idea. Anora had tasked him with bolstering the Wardens' ranks, and he supposed the most expedient way to do that would be to operate independently of the Warden Commander, as they remained the only two Wardens in all of Ferelden, what with Riordan dead and Alistair somewhere in Orlais. Maric's son had been unable to accept him as a brother, a sentiment that Loghain understood to a certain extent, if he, like Darius, considered it something of a childish one. _No one_ wanted to see Ferelden safe more than Loghain Mac Tir, and if that meant joining the Wardens, so be it. He was willing to admit he had been mistaken about Darius Cousland, but he had _never_ acted out of anything beyond the desire to keep his country safe, whether from Orlais or darkspawn either one.

Though he would never have admitted it, the Joining had been oddly liberating for him. His path in the wake of Ostagar had been a terribly harsh one that had made him few friends. It was somewhat comforting to have a clear path before him again, to not find himself fraught with guilt and indecision at every turn.

_Following the orders of Bryce Cousland's youngest son, not to mention those of my own daughter, _he thought with a tinge of amusement. Anora, now Queen of Ferelden in truth. Wonders never ceased.

"I wonder if the Queen anticipated the state of lawlessness that we'd find here," Darius remarked.

"I doubt you'd find the rest of Ferelden far removed from this state of affairs," said Loghain, and that was true enough. Soldiers were in short supply everywhere, unsurprisingly. Ferelden had lost many of her sons this past year.

_Cailan among them._

The younger Warden nodded and shrugged. "I know. Still, I don't relish the idea of policing a lawless arling with only a handful of soldiers and half-trained militiamen. Farmers will be beating down the doors from the moment we arrive."

_True and true,_ Loghain agreed voicelessly. He knew from experience that this sort of situation was a farmer's worst nightmare. Without soldiers to defend them, whatever crops they'd managed to harvest would be ripe for the plucking for anyone bold enough to take them. _Not to mention many of them have their families to consider._

"More men will come," Loghain replied, more confidently than he felt. "Give it time. Your reputation precedes you, after all."

"So they say."

Darius adjusted his hood and returned to his brooding. Loghain watched him for a moment, but didn't break the silence.

It was a heavy burden he carried, especially for one so young. Ironically, it was only now, with the threat ended and his path as Warden Commander laid out neatly before him, that Darius Cousland looked truly lost. The young Warden kept his emotions close, as a rule, but the more time that passed since the Blight's end, the more wooden and mechanical his movements became, the more distant and pained was his countenance. He would do his duty – of this Loghain had no doubt, as the young man was certainly as strong and capable as ever – but he was no longer the man who had so inspired his friends and followers. Something inside him was broken, and he wandered, neither sure of nor content with the path he traveled. The sight of him plodding methodically along, huddled against the cold and plagued by dark and lonely thoughts, touched Loghain with a momentary pang of sadness.

_He'll get over it. He has to._

Truth be told, Loghain knew next to nothing of his Commander's thoughts. Likely, no one did. That was Darius' way – he had been friendly enough, once, but he had always spoken relatively little and confided even less. The few who could have called him "friend" were scattered now, to the four winds and beyond. His family, loved ones, the familiar faces of his youth – all dead, murdered before his eyes, the work of the man who had once been Loghain's right hand.

Loghain sighed and shook his head. Thoughts of Howe always brought bitterness and anger. Of all the errors he'd made, increasing the power and influence of Rendon Howe was the one he regretted most. Howe had been a monster, blind with ambition, and his death had been justice.

_As mine would have been_, he reflected. _Blinded as I was by fear and hate._

Amaranthine had been Howe's arling, now given to the Grey Wardens, with Howe's estate, Vigil's Keep, to serve as their base of operations. A small measure of justice for the horror that the Warden Commander had endured at the hands of Howe's men. Small comfort, likely. No comfort at all to Loghain Mac Tir, who had not only been complicit in most of Howe's schemes, but had allowed himself to be influenced by him.

_No sense dwelling on the past,_ he thought, somewhat bitterly, but it was difficult not to. Both of them were consumed with brooding and dwelling, more often than not. It was amazing how little peace the Blight's end had brought to either of them. It was difficult for him to look back without harboring regrets, or without wondering what could have been. As for Darius, Loghain knew little of the specifics, but he could make a reasonable guess. The young man had been very much in love; they'd all seen it. And he could have sworn that the girl returned the sentiment.

_About as much as any of us can ever truly know about women, I suppose._

"I can see smoke," said Darius suddenly.

Loghain looked up. A column of smoke, likely from a chimney or forge, billowed upward into the sky. Less than a mile away, around the next bend. Yes, a fire would indeed be welcome.

"Long day ahead, I imagine," Loghain offered.

"Undoubtedly," came the measured reply.

They plodded on unenthusiastically, the silence unbroken save the sounds of their footfalls and the assorted rumblings and grumblings of the pack animals. The Warden Commander stared straight ahead, shoulders slightly hunched, saying not a word.

_Hang in there, kid. It gets better with time._

* * *

"You are not asleep so soon, are you?"

He opened his eyes. Her face was very close, her body pressed seductively against him. She wore nothing but that smile, her curious, private smile that almost never surfaced outside the privacy of his tent.

"No, I'm not asleep," he replied, and the words felt strange leaving his mouth. Why should they? It was an inexplicable feeling and one that he forgot in moments.

"Good," she said briskly. "Because I am bored, and I wish for you to amuse me."

He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close and kissed her fiercely, leaving her nearly breathless. She giggled.

"Oh, you are quite full of yourself, are you not?"

"What, are you not amused?"

She laughed again. "I suppose. For now. But you must try harder next time, lest I grow tired of you."

He yawned. "Men grow tired, afterwards. But I suppose you always kick them out before that becomes apparent."

"Or kill them, if they displease me greatly," she added mischievously.

"Charming as ever," he replied wryly.

"Tell me something I do not know," was her airily-delivered reply.

He smiled at her. "Have I ever?"

She smiled back, her secret smile. This time, it seemed a little sad. "Oh, Darius, my love… You were wrong."

"Wrong?"

She leaned in close to his ear, her breasts pressed snugly and provocatively against the skin of his chest. He felt her lips lightly caress the lobe of his ear as she whispered, "You _are _asleep.

"'Tis only a dream…"

He snapped awake, feeling anxious and momentarily disoriented. He was in a large bedchamber, comfortably furnished in the coastal Fereldan style. The embers of a dying fire smoldered in the large, ornate fireplace on the other side of the room. Recognition was swift in its coming – he was in Vigil's Keep, and he was alone.

_Just a dream._

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The Vigil was silent; outside, the night sky was blanketed by the unbroken darkness of the new moon. Judging by the state of the fire, he'd been asleep for perhaps a couple of hours. Morning would be a long time coming, yet.

He sighed heavily and lay back. The bed was very comfortable. This room had belonged to Thomas Howe, so he understood. The master bedroom had been offered to him, an offer that he had brusquely refused. He had no wish to sleep in a room once inhabited by Rendon Howe.

His side was hurting him again. Likely, the pain had awakened him. He still carried a grisly wound, a nasty gash across his stomach that Wynne had been unable to heal completely, a wound he'd taken in the battle for Denerim. The hurlock who'd done the deed had been incinerated, by the very woman who now haunted his dreams.

_Only a dream…_

It was another sort of pain, a terrible emotional void, that had simply become a part of him since she'd left him, as if it sought to replace her in his life. He distanced himself from it as best he could, but it always remained, like a prowler lurking just out of sight. There was no dealing with it. She was gone, out of his life forever.

He couldn't afford to brood; he was the ranking Grey Warden in all of Ferelden, the Commander of the Grey. The entire arling of Amaranthine was now his responsibility. His mind should be full of trade figures, visions of soldiers and farmers, not useless and fleeting images of a woman and an unborn child.

_Responsibility be damned, _he thought bitterly. _I did not ask for this._

He hadn't, that was true. But he would do his duty. Really, what was the alternative? Going on a blind, fruitless search for someone who did not want to be found, by him least of all? In his mind, he heard her voice:

_"I promise you, here and now: You will regret it in the end."_

The thick dressing on his wound had grown dark brown with blood. Mechanically, he set about the task of changing it, making slow work of unwinding the heavy gauze from about his torso. It was painful busywork, but at least it occupied his mind. He seemed to be perpetually tired, since Denerim. He wondered absently when he'd last had a good night's rest.

_You're being foolish. She _did_ warn you._

_Just let it go._

Maybe he could, with time. Perhaps, with time, he could forget her, the lovely golden-eyed witch who'd stolen his heart and left him broken. There was certainly enough before him as Warden Commander to occupy his mind. Right now, however, in this strange bed, alone, it seemed a very remote possibility. She had warned him, but either he hadn't believed or hadn't realized the depth of his entanglement. Useless speculation, now. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her face, heard her lovely, melodic laughter.

The last bit of cloth came away from the wound unwillingly, revealing a livid, angry red gash. As he allowed the wound to breathe a bit in the chill air of the keep, his hands drifted automatically to the cord around his neck. On this cord hung a ring, a twisted, unadorned loop of rosewood. It was a strange thing; the wood's grain seemed to _shift_ periodically, taking on abstract shapes of trees, plants, and forest creatures. A gift, it had been; a trinket, touched by her magic. Keeping it this way was perhaps ill-advised; "foolish sentimentality," as she might say. But Darius would no more part with it than with his head. Its magic never worked for him, ungifted as he was, but once, only once, he had experienced a strange sensation while handling the ring, turning it over and over in his calloused fingers. A wave of anguish and regret seemed to pass through him, emotions that were not his own, and he imagined, for an impossibly brief moment, that he could see the world through her eyes. The sensation had passed as quickly as it had come, but it had been vivid and real.

The ring now rested heavily in his palm, just a small nondescript circle of rosewood. All he had left of her.

_Just forget it, damn you. This is pointless. She's gone._

He finished cleaning his wound and carefully applied a fresh wrapping. When he'd finished, the whole mess throbbed and pulsed beneath the cloth. It was always leaking or oozing something… Maybe the blade had been poisoned – _that_ was an unpleasant thought. If it didn't improve soon, he'd have to find a doctor.

_Add it to the agenda, _he thought wearily.

The bed was indeed soft and comfortable, and he lay back, closing his eyes. He did not expect to fall asleep, but he at least needed to relax. There would be much to do, come morning.

* * *

Author's notes:_ Composed whimsically, the product of a morbid mood. More of a prompt than an actual story, I think. Don't know if I'll continue this or not… If I do, it will probably focus much more on the past than the present I've established, and I might even go back and reformat the entire thing._

_I didn't like Awakening much and would prefer to go my own way post-Origins – Awakening just didn't feel the same, to me, but the main thing is that I just love Morrigan and want to see more of her. I can't be the only one. Love it or hate it, I'd love to hear from you._


	2. Intrigue

2 – _Intrigue_

The fortress was old. Older than old. Built by the Tevinter Imperium to serve as a vanguard against the Avvar barbarians of the Korcari Wilds, the ancient bastion of Ostagar now teemed with life for the first time in centuries. Soldiers milled about aimlessly on the ramparts, chatting companionably with one another – the king's good humor had proved infectious among many of the younger soldiers, it seemed. Elven messengers scurried about the encampment, blacksmiths hammered diligently at their forges, a chanter recited the irrepressible Chant of Light from atop a makeshift dais. A group of mages, flanked by their stoic, ever-watchful templar chaperones, practiced their craft in a small cluster slightly removed from the rest of the king's camp.

Darius took it all in impassively, feeling very remote and detached from the entire scene. All of this was new – he'd been in military camps before, but never on this scale. Normally, he would be eager to explore, and explore he would, but his heart wasn't really in it. The degree to which his life had changed in the past week was almost beyond belief. He was Lord Darius Cousland of Highever no longer; Fergus would be teyrn, if he still lived, but Bryce Cousland's youngest son now walked a far different path. Here, in the wake of the loss of his entire house, the loss of everyone he knew and loved… here, he would become a Grey Warden.

The camp was in good spirits, overall. Unsurprising, given King Cailan's confidence. Duncan counseled caution, and Darius privately agreed. What sense did it make to engage a Blight without the greatest show of strength Ferelden could muster? According to Duncan, a legion of Orlesian Wardens currently marched for Ferelden, and waiting for them to strengthen the army seemed the only obvious choice. No Fereldan could be entirely easy about the presence of Orlesian soldiers in the country, but these were Grey Wardens. A Blight would represent a danger to all of Thedas; suspecting the Wardens of nationalistic intrigues would be idiotic and misguided.

_But what do I know, _he thought, abandoning this pointless train of thought. Those worries were for Duncan and the other Wardens, for King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain. Darius' only responsibility was to follow orders.

He could see Duncan, warming himself over by the fire. Will, as well, curled up on the ground, happily absorbing the heat from the blaze. He didn't like the idea of bringing Will along to fight darkspawn, but he couldn't very well leave the mabari behind. He and Will were partners, friends nearly from birth. There was no question of sending the hound away. Maybe it was selfish, but he'd already lost everything – his mother, father, maybe even Fergus, for all he knew… he didn't want to lose Will, too.

The fortress was large, and he let his feet wander where they willed, carrying him up a flight of weatherworn stone steps to the top of the keep's southern wall. The view here was spectacular – the legendary Korcari Wilds stretched out endlessly before him, as far as the eye could see. Trees of every shape and size, dotted with the ruins of ancient cities, the entire expanse covered in a thick, omnipresent mist that never seemed to thin. Local legends attributed the swirling mists of the Wilds to an unnatural curse, and from the forest's decidedly sinister appearance, Darius could almost believe it. Becoming lost in the Korcari Wilds, in that endless, foggy labyrinth and falling prey to who knows what would be a very unpleasant way to die. In addition to the Chasind wilders, the dreaded Witch of the Wilds supposedly lurked therein.

_Not to mention an entire darkspawn horde. Anything could hide in that forest. Two armies could pass side by side, each entirely unaware of the other's presence._

He'd yet to have his first encounter with a live darkspawn, but a dead genlock lay on display over by the fletcher's tent. A grizzled Warden stood over the body, providing a grim lecture on darkspawn anatomy and tendencies in battle. To Darius, the darkspawn's appearance was both sobering and terrifying. It looked like some sort of deformed, wicked child, dressed in blackened armor, its face a hideous jack-o'-lantern with a grotesque underbite. Apparently the hurlocks were much larger; the Warden had pointed him out specifically as a reasonable comparison to the average hurlock's size. Disconcerting, as Darius was rather tall and broad in the shoulders. Not to mention all darkspawn were supposedly possessed of unnatural strength and stamina.

_It's a wonder the king can speak of the coming battle with any confidence, _he mused. Duncan had characterized the army's recent victories against the darkspawn as small skirmishes, nothing more or less. Looking out over the vast, fog-covered expanse of the Korcari Wilds, he felt markedly uneasy. _Anything_ could hide in that forest.

_Fergus is out there somewhere._

Darius felt a pang of sadness with the thought of his older brother. He couldn't even begin to imagine how to tell Fergus about the result of Howe's treachery. Imagining him somewhere out there under the trees, cold and miserable, praying for a swift end to the conflict so that he could return home, blissfully unaware that Oren and Oriana would not be there waiting for him… It was heartbreaking. Fergus was always so pleasant, so endlessly optimistic, unwilling to believe the worst of anyone or anything. This news would crush him. Perhaps even destroy him.

The fact that Fergus had been sent here at all had been a sore point with Darius in the beginning. Fergus was a good soldier, but nowhere close to a match for his younger brother. Not to mention that Fergus had a family to consider, a wife and child of his own. If one of them must accompany their father to battle, Darius had argued, then let me be the one to go. He was the natural choice; no wife, no children, no one to mourn him aside from his parents, who would mourn Fergus equally – Fergus, well spoken and well loved, the future teyrn of Highever, much more the man of the people than the darker, roguish Darius. But Bryce wouldn't allow it. The eldest goes to war; that was always the way.

_Never mind that Fergus would make a far better teyrn than I. And so he will be, now, if he still lives. If either of us still lives, after this._

If Fergus survived this ordeal, he would first have to retake the teyrnir from Howe. A bloody affair, likely, but a necessary one. But that was Fergus' responsibility, now, and if Fergus died…

_If Fergus dies, then the Couslands are no more._

It was a bleak thought, one that filled him with emptiness and despair. In the space of one night, everything he'd known had been destroyed. So abrupt and unexpected. He'd felt mostly displeasure and dread for the task of overseeing the teyrnir, and his worries upon going to sleep had been utterly prosaic and ordinary, those that had not simply been banished by the presence of the enchantingly beautiful elven girl fast asleep on his chest.

Lovely Iona. He'd been smitten at the sight of her. So reserved and well-mannered, she'd been, the very model of gratitude for her agreeable station. In the confines of his room, however, she had proved delightfully bold, an absolute fireball, her nimble hands prying relentlessly at his clothes from the moment the door closed behind her. That slender little elven woman had ridden him to complete exhaustion, refusing to relent until _she _was satisfied. Darius had fallen asleep utterly enamored with her. Less than three hours later, she was dead, an arrow through her neck and another through her heart.

The sight of that beautiful, enchanting creature lying dead on the cold, stone floor, her nude body limp and tangled in a grotesque heap… It was a terrible image and one that would likely stay with him forever. Will had saved his life, that night. The mabari had charged headlong into their attackers, tearing out the throat of one of Iona's murderers while Darius himself stood paralyzed with numb shock. Only concern for Will's safety had galvanized him into action.

He sighed miserably. It was pointless and destructive, thinking this way. He had new responsibilities now, and standing about brooding over the past was wasting time. Duncan had asked him to find Alistair, another Grey Warden in the king's camp.

_I suppose I should start looking_.

He gave the ominous Korcari Wilds one last, apprehensive look before turning back toward the camp to begin his search. He hadn't wanted this, but it was all he had now. A Grey Warden. Heroes of legend. Somehow, he couldn't muster up much excitement. Perhaps it was for the best, in a way. He'd never been much of a lord or noble; battle and adventure were his natural provinces, and joining the Wardens would undoubtedly provide both in abundance. But walking these old stone-paved paths, in this centuries-old relic of Tevinter… he had never before felt so alone.

* * *

She observed them from the treetops, cloaked in the body of a raven and thus entirely safe from prying eyes. Horrid, disgusting creatures, these darkspawn, come from beneath the ground to pollute the Wilds with their filth. She could happily watch them all burn. Perhaps the nobles and their army might succeed in repelling them or at least in thinning their numbers. Or perhaps the army would be utterly destroyed, crushed beneath the feet of the darkspawn horde. Either outcome would be agreeable to her – so long as the creatures were removed from her home, she did not care in the slightest what became of them.

Curiosity reared its inquisitive head from time to time, but the Korcari Wilds belonged to Morrigan, and she to them. Her home came by its name honestly – the Wilds were indeed a wild, inhospitable land of twisted trees, dank marshes, idyllic lakes, and bogs. The Chasind made their homes on the outskirts of the forest, but even those wild, primitive folk feared to venture inside too deeply, into Morrigan's backyard. They were an amusement, those savage, superstitious folk, but they were interlopers in this wild and beautiful land of which Morrigan was mistress. For other people, she cared little. The creatures of the Wilds were her kin.

On a whim, she spread her raven's wings and glided off north, back toward the human lands. She knew the Wilds well, certainly better than anyone living save perhaps Flemeth, but to _truly_ know the Wilds would be impossible. She had explored hundreds of miles, as girl, woman, beast and bird, swam in lakes and rivers, stalked through marshes, climbed mountains… and still the Wilds stretched ever on. Here, near the southern border of Ferelden, old ruined buildings dotted the landscape, remnants of civilizations long past. Some she recognized as Tevinter; some she had learned were Avvar; others possessed stories of which even Flemeth could not tell. Further south, however, the ruins dwindled and finally disappeared entirely, giving way to dense forests that had likely never been inhabited by man. Once, in the far south, Morrigan had glimpsed an impossibly tall, snow-capped range of mountains that she suspected would not appear on any map. What lay beyond would be anyone's guess. The end of the world, perhaps? Had she a mouth, she would have smiled.

Flying as a bird was an experience unlike any other. She stretched her wings, gliding effortlessly on the late autumn wind, heading whimsically toward the old Tevinter fortress of Ostagar. There, the king's army camped, intending to do battle with the terrible horde massing in the south. A few battles had been joined already; the scent of the decaying dead was strong, even above the trees, and disconcertingly bearable to her raven's nose. An unpleasant thought, that. She swooped down lower, skimming just above the treetops. Changing shape requires tremendous willpower and insight into the target species, and as insight evolves into true empathy upon successful transformation, one simply must take the good with the bad. An uncanny appetite for carrion would not be the strangest trait she had unconsciously adopted in assuming an animal's form.

She perched near the top of a great pine, watching the soldiers milling about on Ostagar's southern wall. The fortress was an eyesore, a garish Tevinter monstrosity. Well-built to withstand battle and the elements, but gone far to seed. The Wilds would claim it eventually.

_They already have. Very nearly._

Abruptly, the sounds of voices reached her ears – not from nearer the fort, but from further into the Wilds. Curious, she took wing to investigate, flying down to a much lower branch on a fledgling pine growing doggedly in the larger one's shadow. She always took note of visitors.

There were four of them. Armed men, likely soldiers from the fortress, on what errand she could not begin to guess.

"None of you ever been in the Wilds before, eh?" said a smallish, mousy one. He carried a shortbow in his hand and a pair of daggers on his belt.

"I'm from Redcliffe," replied another, this one a large, ugly, lumpy creature carrying an unwieldy broadsword. "I have never been so far south as this before, but I have heard tales of the Wilds, in my youth."

"Nasty, dangerous place, it is," the mousy one continued. "Best to be in and out quickly is what I say."

_Especially dangerous for fools,_ she thought. From her vantage, she could clearly see a small group of darkspawn soldiers hidden in the trees and waiting in ambush. Likely, these four imbeciles would walk right into them and be summarily slaughtered.

One of them surprised her, however.

"Wait," said a deep voice, belonging to a tall man with hair as black as her own.

The others stopped immediately. For a moment, the Wilds were utterly still and silent around them; then, the darkspawn were upon them.

There were eight of them, outnumbering the men two to one. The bowman was immediately forced to use his knives as a lumbering hurlock charged him, bellowing and brandishing its wicked, barbed blade in a fury. The man managed to evade the charge, but it was a near thing – the sword very nearly took his head.

She watched the battle as a passive observer with only a casual interest. The little bowman was agile and opportunistic, but not overly skilled. Certainly not a soldier. And the big, lumpy man with the broadsword… strong, yes, but that seemed his only redeeming quality. He was slow, both mentally and physically. Her magic would have done for him in an instant. The third was a stocky blond man with a sword and shield, a passable warrior, she supposed, but with a natural sort of clumsiness that was likely only disguised by years of training. The tall man, though… He was something else entirely.

He fought strangely, with a sword in each hand, cleaving the darkspawn like a bladed whirlwind. She had never seen the like. A Grey Warden, perhaps? The others were as children, next to him – the darkspawn who faced him fell like dry leaves in the wind. A Warden? No, this man was a demon set loose against the darkspawn ranks, and these few proved woefully unprepared. She was intrigued.

"Everyone all right?" the blond man asked as the last of the creatures fell.

"Nearly," the bowman replied. He was crouched over a headless genlock, holding a vial.

_Gathering… blood? How very odd! What _are _they doing here?_

She watched as they each gathered a vial of blood, all but the blond man, and continued south, deeper into the Wilds. She took wing and followed, more curious than ever of their errand, unknowingly in pursuit of the man who would one day father her child.

_Not Chasind, certainly not ordinary soldiers… Why are they here?_

Her insatiable curiosity had been piqued. She would follow them; she was intrigued.

* * *

He plodded onward through a dense forest filled with mist, driven by a palpable sense of urgency. If asked, he would not have known how to describe what he felt. He didn't know where he was going – his only guide was instinct. That, and the faraway sound of her laughter.

This place was endless. Every tree, every rock, every turn looked the same, yet he pressed inexorably on. If he faltered, everything would be lost. He knew this, so he persevered. She was here. Somewhere. He only had to find her.

For hours on end he walked. Occasionally, her melodic laughter reached his ears, just on the edge of hearing, and he broke into a run, pressing himself to exhaustion. Yet he seemed to come no closer, and his heart dangled at the edge of despair. What if he remained here forever, always chasing, eternally in pursuit of a phantom? What if he chased on and on, fruitlessly, until his body wasted away of hunger and exhaustion?

Suddenly he burst into a clearing, the impenetrable mist abruptly evaporating into a thing of memory. It was vaguely familiar, this place, as if he'd once seen it (_through her eyes_) in a dream, a small clearing on a forested hill, an ancient stump at its center adjacent to a faerie circle of ghostly white mushrooms.

There she stood, lithe and sensual and radiantly beautiful, clothed in the tribal robes she'd once worn out of the Wilds. His lovely Morrigan stood waiting for him, smiling, arms wide open. He ran to her, swept her into his arms, his heart overflowing with ecstasy.

"Morrigan," he breathed. She smiled at him, stood on tiptoe to speak into his ear.

"Not anymore," she whispered harshly, and suddenly her face _changed_. Her brow sunk, her teeth became elongated fangs, her ears sharpened to points… He recoiled from her in terror.

"This tale is not yet over… 'Tis a tale poor Flemeth knows well…"

He screamed, and the creature laughed at him.

"Come, now. You loved my daughter… Surely you can come to love me as well?"

Darius snapped bolt upright, a terrified scream lurking at the back of his throat. Dawn's first light filtered lazily through the bedroom window, and he collapsed onto his back in sweaty, shivering relief.

_Another dream. Just a dream._

A knock sounded at his door.

"Come in," he called, still badly shaken.

The Seneschal entered tentatively, already dressed to perfection in anticipation of the day's events. Varel was always meticulously prepared.

"Forgive me for disturbing you, Warden Commander," the Seneschal bowed. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough. They're here already?"

"No, no, not as yet," Varel replied reassuringly. "Truthfully, I don't expect the nobles to begin arriving until this afternoon, with no shortage of pomp and ceremony befitting their respective stations, in all likelihood," he concluded wryly.

Darius nodded, methodically pulling on a shirt over the bulky bandage on his chest.

"Surely you should have that seen to, Commander?" Varel asked tentatively.

"Probably," he agreed. "Was there something you needed, Seneschal?"

"Yes, to the point. Last night, the guards managed to apprehend a thief on the premises. I saw no cause to wake you or Master Loghain," Varel nearly cringed; no one could be easy calling Loghain anything but "teyrn" or "lord," at least not yet; "but this thief proved something of a dangerous man. The efforts of four guards were required to subdue him, and he refuses to give his name or even speak to anyone who questions him. I simply thought this to be a matter worthy of your attention," he finished.

"Thank you, Varel," Darius replied. "I'll look into it immediately."

The Seneschal bowed his way out of the room, and Darius set about the business of getting dressed. Dangerous thieves on the premises. After only two days, everything was already falling apart around him. He smiled humorlessly to himself.

The nobles would begin arriving today, to swear fealty to him. Not to him personally – rather, to the station of Warden Commander.

_How that must gall. I wouldn't be surprised if none of them show until nightfall._

Nobles and their constant scheming and maneuvering for advantage. He knew their ways all too well, had grown up surrounded by them, and he was in no mood for their games. They could cooperate with him or be hanged, for all he cared. Perhaps he would simply let Varel handle it.

_He seems capable enough. Much more capable than I am at this sort of thing._

Truth be told, it was much less an issue of capability than desire – Darius merely did not want to be bothered with it. He lacked patience, of late. He knew he was making a poor first impression, but this new role was already beginning to chafe. He hated all the bowing and scraping, "Commander" this and "Warden Commander" that. It was absurd. He could have strangled Anora for roping him into this.

_Maybe I'll run away. How long before they'd notice, I wonder?_

He snorted irritably. Less than five minutes, more than likely. He pulled on his boots and walked to the door, forcing down the unpleasant thoughts still lingering from his nightmare.

_Four men, hmm? Perhaps we've a candidate for the Joining on our hands._

* * *

Author's Notes: _I may end up editing this, as well, as I'm not entirely satisfied with it, but I wanted to get something down to provide some sort of direction. I'm still working through how I want this to work in my head. Let me know what you think so far._


	3. Honey and Vinegar

3 – _Honey and Vinegar_

She felt no shame in admiring his body, regardless of his state of unconsciousness. Morrigan was a woman who took what she wanted at her leisure; that had always been her way. It was only natural, in her or in any human, after all. Besides, most men would revel in the opportunity to lay unclothed beneath a lovely woman's admiring eye. They would indeed, were they conscious, though of course this man assuredly was not.

He was a tall man, very handsome, his body pleasantly lean and tautly muscled. Flemeth's magic had worked wonders with his wounds – not even a single scar remained, save a few old ones that Flemeth's spells could not touch. From other battles, perhaps? No stranger to battles, this handsome thing. She had seen him at it, and he was a masterful swordsman, whirling about the battlefield like a man possessed. Quite dashing, really.

Of the two Wardens Flemeth had rescued from atop the Tower of Ishal, Morrigan much preferred this one. The other lurked outside somewhere, blubbering and carrying on like a child throwing a tantrum. She had encountered both of them in the Wilds, along with two others. Three of them had been utterly typical: excitable sheep, strayed too far from their masters. Only this man, this Darius, had behaved the least bit sensibly.

_If that fool outside is to be his only companion now, death on that tower might have been a mercy, _she thought, turning her attention to the rack of spices on the wall. What to fix for dinner? Perhaps these Wardens would stay to eat? If that imbecile Alistair could manage to stifle his sobbing long enough to feed himself. If he continued so, perhaps _she_ would lose her appetite.

Morrigan could call forth fire, had the power of lightning at her fingertips, could entomb a man in a shroud of ice, but summoning any sort of sympathy for Alistair's plight was utterly beyond her abilities. Men die, and life in the world continues. Death is only a natural inevitability, one that we all must face. Refusing to accept it, as Alistair did, was idiocy of the highest order, in her eyes. Not to mention that he wore his heart on his sleeve, as it were, venting his infantile grief in the presence of complete strangers. She had little patience for it. None at all, truthfully.

_'Tis a senseless waste of time and energy. Mother should put him out of his misery and be done with it._

Garlic, thyme, basil, and rosemary… Choices, choices. Perhaps a stew of some kind. Much as she would have voiced disdain for the notion, Morrigan possessed many of the skills typical of a Fereldan housewife. She was an exceptional cook, not to mention a skilled seamstress and immaculate keeper of house. She derived a sort of uncomplicated, unconscious pleasure from these ordinary aspects of daily life; it was comforting, being home.

The Warden stirred. He sat up slowly, blinking his eyes dumbly and clearly uncertain of his situation. The blanket covering him slipped down to his hips.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Your eyes finally open. Mother should be pleased."

He was confused, clearly, but he adjusted quickly, his dark green eyes regarding her impassively, sizing her up without pretense. Her lips quirked upward in a sly smile; the sexual attraction between the two of them had been immediate and almost tangible upon their first meeting in the Wilds, and if anything it was amplified now, if relegated to an undercurrent given the unusual circumstances.

"This is your house? In the Wilds?" he asked simply.

"Yes…" she replied in a patronizing tone. "Mine and my mother's. I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten. Do you not remember Mother's rescue?"

He shook his head. "No. Your mother rescued me? From the darkspawn? How did she manage that?"

"From what I could gather, she shifted her form to that of a bird and plucked you and your friend from the top of that tower, though 'twas a close call. Perhaps you should ask her, if you are interested in the details."

He nodded slowly. No gasp of surprise, no instinctive disbelief? Curious. "I don't suppose you have any news of the battle."

"Indeed I do, though I suspect it will prove unpleasant to you. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred," she recited matter-of-factly, watching his face for the telltale signs of anguish. He provided none; she approved. "Your friend… he is not taking it well," she finished.

"My friend? You mean Alistair?"

"The suspicious, dimwitted one who was with you before? Yes," she nearly giggled. "He is outside by the fire. I suppose it would be unkind to say he is being childish."

For the first time, he seemed to realize he was naked. "Do you have my clothes?"

She directed him to a wicker chair against the far wall, upon which his bloodied, bedraggled garments lay alongside his pair of longswords and his belt knife. "They are likely a bit worse for wear than you recall."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "You intend to watch, do you?"

A slow-forming lascivious grin was her response. He only shrugged, however, abruptly casting off his blankets and setting about the business of getting dressed, and she felt a strange urge to once again busy herself with the spice rack. She'd expected him to be at least a _little_ abashed; this relative unconcern took all the fun out of watching him, aside from the simple pleasure in admiring his body.

"Why do you suppose your mother rescued us?" he asked, tugging his pants on. His clothes were hardly fit to wear; _she _would certainly never be seen in such rags, bloody and nearly shredded as they were, though she allowed that he had little choice in the matter. His boots, weapons, and that bundle of rags were likely all he could lay claim to in the world, now that the darkspawn horde had overrun Ostagar.

"You will have to ask her yourself," she replied, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "She rarely tells me her plans."

Not a lie, that statement, but certainly an evasion. It was absolutely true that Flemeth rarely shared her many plans and designs with her daughter, but in this case, Morrigan suspected that she knew something of her mother's motivations. It was a faraway, unlikely sort of thought, but Morrigan would put nothing past Flemeth. Grey Wardens, darkspawn, the Archdemon…

_An Old God…_

"Your mother," said Darius, slinging his cloak about his shoulders. "She is outside?"

"Almost certainly," she answered, meeting his eyes. He could not match her merry unconcern, given his circumstances, but he was very calm and austere, not at all reminiscent of his fellow Grey Warden, he of the cringing and moaning. Very sensible and pragmatic.

"I'll speak with her, then. Thank you for your help, Morrigan."

"I… You are welcome," she stammered, wringing her hands. _There he goes, being polite again. _With simple civility, Morrigan was somewhat unfamiliar. "Though Mother did most of the work," she added hastily. "I am no healer."

He was already on his way out; the door clattered heavily behind him. Much as she would have liked to witness his handling of the Alistair situation, she set about the task of preparing the evening meal. She could at least set the stew to boiling before allowing herself to join in the fun.

Much as Morrigan harbored a general sort of disdain for humankind at large, she could not deny that she possessed a certain curiosity toward them that occasionally vexed her. Humans were petty creatures as a rule, especially men, easy to predict and easier to outwit. By turns they amused her, annoyed her, bored her and repulsed her. She'd rarely encountered any person with whom she could relate or for whom she could entertain any sort of admiration or respect, but still she was curious, and this man Darius made her all the more so. Strength and intelligence, she could respect, and he clearly possessed both. It would almost be a pity to see him go. Almost.

She busied herself with chopping vegetables, speculating idly on Flemeth's designs. It was quite a risk for Flemeth to take, plunging herself into the thick of a battle for the sake of two dying men, one of whom had turned out to be a useless cretin. Morrigan knew the reasoning Flemeth would profess: the Blight threatens us all, me no less than any other. But what were two men, Grey Wardens or not, against that endless tide of darkspawn? Against a tainted god? Flemeth's ritual would require the death of the Archdemon, and the odds of two Wardens, one of them Alistair, achieving that end seemed… remote, at best. A fool's hope, and Flemeth was no fool. Insane, perhaps, but not a fool by any measure.

Life with Flemeth was a constant game of chance, from Morrigan's perspective at least. She suspected her relationship with her mother to be anything but normal, though she had no way to truly know if this were so. She had no other mother, after all. Flemeth was a strange creature, no longer precisely human; her true nature was a mystery even to her daughter. Indeed, it could perhaps be said that Morrigan's greatest aspiration for much of her life was to find ways to learn things that Flemeth wished to keep hidden from her. Why did the legends speak of many daughters, while she herself had never met another? By what means did Flemeth extend her unnatural lifespan? Was she an abomination, a demon in possession of a human body, or something else? Something… _more_?

But perhaps the greatest question, the one for which Morrigan most fervently desired an answer, concerned her own place in Flemeth's plans. Why did Flemeth have daughters at all? Perhaps she simply desired companionship over the many long years of her life, but somehow Morrigan did not believe it so. Flemeth was crafty, and she always acted out of careful, intelligent self-interest. Almost certainly, Morrigan's life was meant to serve Flemeth in some fashion, and as Morrigan grew older, her prevailing need to discover the purpose behind her existence increased proportionately. It would not do to find herself stuffed into a cook pot, the main course of a carefully prepared youth-restoring meal, as had been the case in some of her most morbid girlhood fancies.

Still, despite all of this, she was not unhappy. Flemeth was nothing if not entertaining, and if her childhood had been unusual, so be it; she had grown into a strong, clever, and beautiful woman, in no small part due to her mother's tutelage. Morrigan reveled in struggle, thrived on testing herself against her mother, a powerful and legendary being. What she lacked in experience, she compensated with cleverness and capability; her relative innocence, somewhat inevitable given her sheltered and secluded upbringing, was countered by her deep-seated distrust and suspicion of other people. At this point in her life, a "normal" existence would have seemed positively banal in comparison.

Her stew bubbled vigorously over the cook fire, and she inhaled the pleasant aroma it produced with satisfaction. Perhaps now would be a good time to look in on their guests, if only to see them on their way. She brushed off her hands briskly and made her merry way out the front door, out into the intermittent sunlight, unknowingly walking out of her old life forever.

* * *

The autumn cold was not yet unbearable, but it was close, and they were not yet so far from the Wilds for Darius to feel comfortable risking much of a fire. Alistair huddled over the small blaze eagerly, his armor discarded at the base of his tent. Since the battle, the other Warden had been nearly useless, consumed by his grief. Darius understood grief all too well, but Alistair's gloominess tried his patience.

_He'd better snap out of it before too much longer. I can't do this by myself._

As for the new addition to their ragtag little group, the sorceress seemed to have adjusted rather well to being cast out of her home. She had been petulant and standoffish for a time, speaking sharply and only when spoken to, but she also seemed to have found tormenting Alistair to be a suitable diversion. Those two would likely never be friends. Alistair seemed determined to dislike her, and she seemed just as determined to make that easy for him.

"Are you quite finished?" said Morrigan's musical voice. "I for one would like to enjoy the warmth of the fire without having to endure your unpleasant smell."

Alistair started to sniff himself surreptitiously, but halted immediately when he realized what he was doing. He glared at her irritably, his eyes red and glassy. "Just give over, won't you? What have I ever done to you?"

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked innocently. She sat perched on a log, partly cloaked by the dark of night and thus not entirely visible, but her burnished-gold eyes glowed faintly in the firelight. "'Twas only a request for a common courtesy. Surely you cannot blame a woman for being wary of fleas."

"Just leave me alone," Alistair growled, gathering a small tin of soup and disappearing into his tent. Morrigan laughed delightedly at this development, taking his place by the fire and absorbing its warmth with relish.

Talk of fleas brought a lump to Darius' throat; he'd seen neither hide nor hair of Will since leaving the king's camp at Ostagar. It wasn't foolish to hope for the mabari's survival, not really – mabari were known for their resiliency, after all, and Will certainly could have conceivably escaped from the darkspawn unharmed.

_He would be looking for me, now, _he thought, an enveloping sadness threatening to overwhelm him. He would not allow it; he would look for Will, and mourn him if necessary, but he was a Grey Warden now, one of only two remaining in all of Ferelden. Surviving the Joining brought with it responsibilities far greater than himself, and never let it be said that Darius Cousland failed to do his duty. The Couslands were a proud people, rebels and survivors. He, at the least, would value his oath.

_To the letter._

He moved over by the fire, examining the arrow holes in his cloak with a critical eye. He had a fair hand with a needle, if a bit bare-bones and utilitarian; he could fix the rips and tears adequately, but the end result would in all likelihood be much less easy on the eyes, so to speak. As a child, he'd never had much patience for tasks he'd considered slow or mundane, and this tendency had nearly driven Nan to tears on innumerable occasions. His mother had once told him, half-jokingly, that if she'd had him first, she would have never had another.

_Mother, Father, Nan…_

_Don't even start._

"It will be some days before we reach Lothering, yet," said Morrigan. "Mending your clothes sooner rather than later would be advisable."

"You have a needle and thread?" he asked.

She looked at him as if he were a fool. "With my things. I shall fetch them, if you like."

"Please do."

He watched her as she stood and disappeared into the darkness. After a few seconds a light appeared some distance away, soft and muted, which served to puzzle him until she returned, carrying a small sewing box in one hand with a small globe of fire suspended in the air over the other. Of course; as a mage, she could make her own light. Quite an enviable ability.

She handed him the box, allowing her makeshift magical torch to dissipate abruptly. "'Tis a delicate craft, needlework," she observed, sitting down next to him. "Are you certain your large, clumsy fingers are up the task?"

"You flatter me," he replied dryly. She chuckled. "But I think I can handle it."

She _tsk_ed at him. "We shall see."

It was slow going and more complicated than he would have expected. His work was sloppy and uneven; several times, he even had to pull out a line of stitches and begin anew. Not to mention the fact that the witch tittered at him constantly, conveying an incessant barrage of disapproval, which made the task all the more difficult. He was on the verge of snapping at her when she simply snatched the whole ensemble away from him, smiling at him with an odd mixture of bemusement and condescension.

"You do dreadful work," she observed, setting his cloak on her lap. "I wonder that you can dress yourself without assistance."

Her comments carried no bite; her most hurtful and sarcastic tone seemed to be reserved exclusively for Alistair. Rather than continuing to needle him, she set about the task of continuing his work with diligence and apparent enthusiasm.

He watched her work. Her hands were much smaller than his own, obviously more suited to the task, and her lithe, deft fingers flitted about with obvious skill and practice. She worked at over three times his own plodding pace.

"You're quite a seamstress," he remarked.

"With you for comparison, anyone would be," she retorted, again without any real venom. She looked up at him, and the two of them shared a smile. She really was beautiful. And quick-witted, incredibly clever, not to mention tough. By all accounts, she'd spent her whole life in the Wilds with her mother, or very nearly. Leaving couldn't have been easy, yet she persevered with minimal sulking or visible distress. She was a strong woman.

_And almost unfalteringly cruel,_ he thought wryly. Still, he couldn't deny his attraction to her; it was no less strong for its strangeness. There had been something between them from the moment they'd met. Two days ago, that had been, though it seemed far longer. Less than a month ago, he'd been a lord of Highever, without a care in the world. How quickly things change.

Both of them looked up at the sound of thunder in the distance. A very unwelcome sound.

"I had best finish this, lest you catch cold and die tomorrow," she sighed.

"Yes, that would be an inconvenience," he agreed.

"Very well. Leave me to it," she ordered. "This will take some time."

He stood up and stretched. "You'd better finish by tomorrow, or I might make good on my threat."

She arched an eyebrow inquisitively.

"To tie you to the nearest flagpole and tickle you into submission."

She giggled. "What a strange man you are."

_You should talk_, he thought, crawling into his tent and huddling under his blanket in an effort to preserve some of the fire's warmth. Joking with her had proven an uncertain undertaking, as she was just as likely to laugh as to miss the point and take offense. He suspected that she had little experience interacting with other people, which would certainly account for her bluntness and utter disregard for social cues. He could fully understand why Alistair disliked her, but he himself couldn't lay claim to the sentiment. He found her alluring. Incredibly so.

This attraction to her made an interesting contrast with all of his suppressed grief and anxiety. Maybe flirting with her would be a helpful diversion; maybe she would even be receptive. She had proven so, thus far. Anything to avoid becoming bogged down in sentimentality.

He could hear Alistair's light snores from the tent next to him. The other Warden was reliable enough in a fight, but leadership just didn't seem to be part of his makeup. Darius liked Alistair well enough – he was funny, good-natured, and friendly, but none of those qualities would be much use against the darkspawn or Loghain Mac Tir.

_I suppose it's all up to me, then,_ he thought, with just a small touch of bitterness. He would do his duty, without question, but none of this seemed particularly fair. Losing everything, in exchange for all this burden and responsibility…

_Just go to sleep. There's nothing you can do about it now._

That was true enough. He watched Morrigan's shadow as it flickered about on the roof of his tent, drifting off into the arms of sleep. What did Flemeth want, sending her along? Did Morrigan know? Her reaction had been one of surprise and anger – if she _had _known, she was a good actor. These thoughts and others floated transiently through his mind, but he was very tired, and the night was nearly silent; sleep came quickly.

* * *

Author's Notes: _I almost feel like I'm glad to get this part out of the way. Hopefully, there won't be any more sections that recycle dialogue from the game. Now that everything is underway, I've got some really good scene ideas that I'm looking forward to incorporating. Stay tuned, and let me know what you think, good or bad._


	4. Peaceful Moments

4 – _Peaceful Moments_

"My goodness, child… You look terrible."

Not the friendliest greeting, to be sure, but Loghain did not doubt the motherly concern behind it. Wynne's face radiated worry from the moment she lay eyes on the young man, and truly, it was not difficult to see why. The Warden looked very tired, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark and haunted. He was dressed simply and in unrelieved black, and his clothes hung loosely on a thinner frame than Wynne perhaps remembered. Perhaps the mage's unexpected arrival would improve his spirits, but as of now, Loghain had scarcely ever seen the young Warden in a worse mood. Dark clouds billowed overhead, promising another harsh winter storm, strangely reflective of the Warden Commander's ill temper.

"Good to see you, too, Wynne," Darius replied wryly. "This is... unexpected. What are you doing here?"

"The College of Magi has requested my presence in Cumberland, but it looks as though I am more needed here," said Wynne sternly. "Are you ill? Has your wound not healed? You should have allowed me to examine it further…"

"Perhaps later," Darius conceded.

"You really must look after yourself, child," she insisted, hands on hips. "I certainly cannot trust that fool Loghain Mac Tir to do it for me."

"I am standing right here, madam," said Loghain sharply. _Even more the harpy this morning than usual._ Wynne ignored him.

"Further instructions, Warden Commander?" the Seneschal interrupted tentatively, closing the door to the dungeon behind him.

"No," said Darius. "Keep him locked up and guarded until I decide what to do with him."

The meeting with Nathaniel Howe had gone both better than Loghain had expected and worse than he'd hoped. Any animosity between Howe and Cousland was mostly one-sided, as Loghain would have expected; Darius was a practical man, after all, and not one given to holding foolish grudges. Nathaniel, however, was raw, angry, and inconsolable over his family's disgrace. He viewed Darius Cousland as nothing more than his father's murderer and the usurper of his family's home, and once the boy learned that Loghain himself was a Warden, his anger increased twofold. Darius had not been combative, not openly, but judging by his current mood, Nathaniel's presence had been unwelcome news.

"What is there to decide?" Loghain asked. "He will attempt to kill you if set free, by his own admission."

"With respect, Commander, I agree with Master Loghain," said Varel solemnly. "It is regrettable, perhaps, but…"

"I would prefer not to hang him," Darius answered. "It would stir up more animosity among the nobility, and if you hadn't noticed, they don't seem to want much excuse. But if he wants to die, let him. I don't have the time or patience for it if he's determined to cause trouble."

"Upon whom are you passing judgment?" Wynne asked. "A member of the nobility has fallen afoul of the Wardens? So soon?"

"The guards caught Nathaniel Howe trying to break into the keep," Varel explained. "He seems quite determined to… exact revenge. For his father."

"I see," said Wynne sadly.

Loghain regretted young Nathaniel Howe's situation, but he could not bring himself to take the blame for it. Rendon Howe wrought his family's ruin with his own hands, and if Nathaniel needed to blame someone, he need look no further than his own father. Darius Cousland in particular was the last person who deserved it, after all he'd suffered at Howe's hands.

He had become a harder man, harsher, since Loghain had first met him. Perhaps the old Darius would have tried to reason with Howe, tried to explain his actions, but this new, colder man saw no use in it, or had no desire to make the effort. Loghain saw some of himself in the younger Warden, without question; neither of them were at their best in the role of teyrn or arl. It had been less than a week since their arrival at Vigil's Keep, and already the nobles grated on the Commander's nerves. All of Amaranthine's nobility were to make their appearances today, taking their oaths to the new arl, and Loghain imagined that Darius would have choice words for some of them. In particular, Loghain wouldn't mind seeing Esmerelle taken down a peg or six. That hag thought entirely too much of herself.

_Nobles and their egos, _he thought. He had his share of bitter memories from his time in Gwaren, memories of addressing the Landsmeet, beating his own stubborn head against the insufferable bannorn. Strange to think that those days were gone forever. Would he miss them?

"The nobles should begin arriving shortly, Warden Commander," said Varel, echoing Loghain's thoughts.

"To swear fealty," Wynne surmised.

"Without incident, if they know what's good for them," said Darius in an ominous tone.

"It might be best to tread carefully with them," said Wynne, sounding a touch worried. "They have the ability to make your tenure here very difficult."

"They'd best hope I don't catch them at it," he replied irritably. "These people are just like Rendon Howe; they're not happy unless they have everything they want and are free to do as they please. I'm not going to coddle them."

There had already been whispers of a conspiracy among the nobility, of an attempt to remove the Wardens from power, and Loghain did not doubt this for a moment. There was no telling what Howe had promised them, no knowing what they'd lost upon his death, and for any and all of those grievances Darius would take the lion's share of the blame. He would be a very visible target.

It was a mess, plain and simple, and Loghain did not envy his having to sort it out. Darkspawn, bandits, angry nobles and angrier farmers, plots and conspiracies, trade difficulties, blocked roads, crop shortages… It was all incredibly distasteful. Fighting a war and directing soldiers, these were simple and straightforward in comparison.

_This was a mistake, Anora. He's not cut out for this._

"I shall take my leave, Commander," said Varel, bowing noisily in his gleaming mail. "There are preparations yet to make."

"By all means."

Varel departed, leaving the three of them alone. Thunder rumbled off in the distance, as the sky overhead grew ever darker; this would be a bad one, more than likely.

"You have a plan, I suppose?" Wynne asked.

"A plan? Not really. It's up to the nobility how they want to respond. The Wardens are in charge here, whether they like it or not, and if this is to be our home in Ferelden, I _will _bring it under our control."

His tone brooked no argument. Wynne simply nodded, though her face had taken on a profoundly dismayed cast.

'If this is to be our home' – those were the words he used. 'If this is to be my place' went unspoken, if not unfelt. It was a feeling Loghain knew well, from those long-ago days with his heart full of Rowan, his desires battling his dedication to the good of his country.

_And what about now? _he thought. Those days were long gone, with wounds old and well-healed, but could he, Loghain Mac Tir, find any peace in his new role? Since the Joining, that train of thought had been one he'd avoided, opting instead to live strictly in the moment, carrying out tasks as presented to him. It was an easier life, following orders, not having to think. But there _was _a thought, never voiced but always there, that this was no less than he deserved. He had always lived his life for his country, first and foremost; perhaps he had simply reached the ultimate evolution of that role, as one of only two Grey Wardens left on Ferelden soil. Perhaps this would be his way of atonement for the mistakes he'd made, for the terrible things he'd done in pursuit of an elusive greater good. Maybe that could be enough for him.

_We all do our duty. No less if it's all we have._

A young boy suddenly ambled up to Darius' side, breathing heavily. "Message for you, my lord. Mistress Woolsey would like to see you, my lord. She says it's important, my lord."

Darius nodded. "Wynne. Loghain."

"Mistress Woolsey?" Wynne mused, watching him mount the steps to the front door.

"The estate's treasurer," Loghain replied. "Imported directly from the fortress at Weisshaupt, so I understand."

"Any word from the girl?" she asked in a hushed tone. There was no doubt who she meant.

"None. You expected there would be?"

"I had hoped," she sighed. "I feel so terribly for him."

"He'll not look kindly on your pity," said Loghain. _And neither would I._

"I have not offered it," she snapped, regarding him with a level stare. "And what of you, Loghain? Do you intend to stay here, at the Keep?"

"Not for much longer."

"He could use your guidance in some things," Wynne continued. "He will upset the nobles, I fear."

"His very presence upsets the nobles," Loghain replied matter-of-factly. She had a point, but what did she expect _him _to do about it? Loghain had never been a model of tactfulness or cordiality. "As does mine, no doubt. My remaining here would not be a favor to him."

"Perhaps you're right," she sighed again, cupping her chin in thought. "But I do want to look at that wound…"

_Then do so, and leave me in peace_, he thought irritably. Rain had begun to fall in light, feathery waves, but that would not last; the thunder was louder now, closer, and the storm moved inexorably on.

"If I am boring you, Loghain, by all means, depart," she said pointedly.

He scowled at her, annoyed. "I do not appreciate your tone, madam."

She snorted derisively, waving a hand at him in dismissal. "Oh, do go on. I rather enjoy the rain… while it is light and bearable."

_Let us hope you don't catch cold and die, old woman, _he thought irritably, wandering toward the armory and glad to be escaping her company. Their relationship had improved from its original condition of outright hostility, but Loghain still could not relish their interactions. The woman could be downright infuriating.

Wynne might enjoy the rain, but Loghain Mac Tir didn't much care for it. It spoke to him of weariness, sickness, cold. Of mud. Of long, uncomfortable nights, of being wet, cold, and lonely. The bard, Leliana, had scoffed at this viewpoint, pointing out that rain is the lifeblood of the trees and flowers, that it "cleanses" the earth. "You are such a dreadful cynic!" she'd exclaimed.

_I am who I am. Change is the province of the young._

He turned back to Wynne, watching her from a distance. She stood alone at the foot of the steps, her upturned face beaming with simple pleasure. A reluctant sort of admiration welled up in him at the sight.

_Fool woman. If she falls ill, it will serve her right,_ he thought, a trifle amused. She was a tough one, Wynne. As a younger woman, she would have been something to behold indeed; proud and severe, she'd been, according to her own account, but he admired her poise and self-awareness, even as it grated on him.

The rain began to fall now in earnest, and Loghain ventured toward the Keep's side door. Today would be a long day for Darius Cousland, and if Loghain could help him, he would. He owed the boy that much.

* * *

They ate without speaking, in a tranquil silence broken only by the crackling of the fire, the bubbling of the nearby brook, and the occasional distant rumble of thunder. Night fell ever more swiftly as the days passed on into autumn, and tonight, with the heavy storm clouds circling overhead, the darkness outside the warming glow of the fire was almost complete, even to Morrigan's eyes.

Their camp lay nestled at the base of a hill, situated comfortably beneath the canopy of the forest. The trees were broader and straighter here, less gnarled than their cousins in the Wilds, and the air of the forest was thinner, easier to breathe without the dank, omnipresent bog smell lingering thickly in the air. Nonetheless, she found herself comparing these tamer lands unfavorably with her home, mentally citing the relative thinness of the forest and its comparative lack of natural denizens. This place was too domestic; too tame. Though she would never have admitted it even to herself, Morrigan was already feeling a little homesick. And grumpy.

Her two companions both appeared lost in their respective thoughts, as well. Alistair, sulking as usual, sat with his head buried in a bowl of stew, his attention fixated on his food to the exclusion of everything around him. He had behaved in this detached manner for much of the journey to this point. Darius occasionally spoke with him, though she could scarcely understand why. If the fool wished to live out the rest of his days in impotent grief, so much the better for them. It would certainly spare them his idiotic banter.

It was a curious thing, watching them. The Wardens referred to each other as "brothers," so she understood, but Alistair and Darius looked nothing of the sort. Alistair was shorter, stockier, fair of hair and face, where Darius was tall and lean, with darker, olive skin and thick black hair. Both were somewhat younger than she would have expected Grey Wardens to be, neither surely much more than her own age. Alistair in particular seemed little more than a boy. Of course the term "brother" was figurative in this case, but it seemed to her overwrought and silly, utterly typical of an order of brainless soldiers. Yes, let us all be siblings in spirit. Let us be heartened by our deliberately falsified sense of kinship as we serve our appointed purpose, expendable blunt instruments to be dashed against the darkspawn horde.

_Grey Wardens. Hmph. I could incinerate them both in an instant, and no one would be the wiser_, she thought, smiling to herself at this morbid fancy. She imagined herself calling forth flames, extinguishing Ferelden's last two Grey Wardens in a wall of fire… imagined flying back home in the form of a raven, interrupting Flemeth at some strange ritual… explaining to her mother that she had, in fact, destroyed the Wardens, having grown immensely weary of them. Imagining the look on Flemeth's face when presented with this ghastly news nearly sent her into hysterics. Oh, how _furious_ she would be!

_Furious enough to slay me on the spot, perhaps_, she thought, stifling a giggle. She had occasionally wondered if Flemeth could possibly be induced to inflict great violence upon her. After all, "maternal love" was hardly a prominent element in their relationship, so perhaps Flemeth entertained some sort of plan for her daughter that killing her would spoil. If Morrigan truly wished to test this theory, murdering the Wardens would be an ideal way to do it, considering how much effort Flemeth had expended to keep them alive. Truly, there were so _few_ opportunities for Morrigan to experiment with her mother's emotions. It would almost be a shame to waste it.

_Curse Mother! The nerve of her!_ she thought suddenly. _Shall I perish at the hands of some nameless darkspawn for being sent upon this fool's errand? _

So what if Morrigan died? Surely Flemeth would have plans for that very possibility. _Bearing the child herself, if worst came to worst… Ah, of course. How very typical. Send the girl to do the uncomfortable, distasteful work, and if she is killed, what of it? It would be a simple matter for Flemeth to offer the deal herself. My job is only to spare her unnecessary risks and the discomfort of sleeping on the ground!_

She crossed her arms tightly beneath her breasts, once again feeling grumpy and even a touch petulant. She would _not _be reduced to Flemeth's errand girl, and she would most definitely not just happily carry out her mother's bidding without a thought for herself. Already the beginnings of her own plans nibbled at the edge of thought, tantalizing tendrils of possibility floating just out of reach. Flemeth had always underestimated her, and perhaps, just perhaps, the time would come when she would regret it. And how delicious that moment would be. A sly grin touched her lips at the thought.

"Something amusing to you?" asked Alistair irritably. She started; had she been looking at him?

"Not that need concern you," she replied. "Though your discourse is _ever _a source of amusement for me. Do continue, should the need to embarrass yourself grow overpowering."

He opened his mouth, quite possibly to unwittingly indulge her, when a sharp rustling in the bushes behind him startled him so badly as to send his bowl of stew tumbling from his lap and into the fire with a sharp _hiss _and clatter.

_Clumsy buffoon_, she thought with disdain, gliding to her feet smoothly, spinning her staff up into her hands. There was something, some creature, lurking in the forest, some short distance away from the sound of it. Alistair gathered himself quickly, snatching up his sword and shield, and Darius was on his feet in an instant. The three of them stood at high alert, ears pricked in anxious anticipation.

Silence reigned for over a minute. The flow of the nearby stream seemed a cacophony.

"What d'you think…" Alistair began in a hushed voice, but Darius shushed him immediately. More silence. Then she heard footsteps, slow and careful. And abruptly, a low, plaintive whine.

_What in the…?_

Darius' body went rigid, and he suddenly whistled, a sharp, yipping sound. A few more moments passed in complete silence… then, out of nowhere, the creature appeared.

It came in a rush, bounding past Alistair in a brown blur, vaulting the fire and striking Darius square in the chest, carrying him to the ground. Lightning crackled at her fingertips before Alistair forestalled her.

"Don't!" he cried. "Don't! It's his mabari!"

She glared past him angrily. "His what?"

"His dog," said Alistair, actually smiling for once. "A war hound. Looks like he managed to outrun the horde after all."

Bizarrely, Alistair seemed to have the right of it. Darius had pulled himself up into a sitting position, and the filthy mongrel was utterly engaged in communicating its disgusting, slobbering affection to its master. Both of the fool men were grinning, apparently thrilled with this development. Morrigan was not nearly so pleased.

"One can only hope the entire horde is not following eagerly in its wake," she mused irritably.

"_His_," Alistair corrected, dropping to his knees and rubbing behind the dog's ears. "Isn't that right, boy?"

"Oh, how adorable," she replied in a biting, acerbic tone. "I do hope you intend to bathe _him_, Darius? 'Tis far too much to expect me to tolerate _another_ creature bearing Alistair's pervasive stench."

"Are you naturally such a horrible shrew, or do you have to really, really _work _at it?" snapped Alistair.

"The question remains," Morrigan insisted.

The other Warden finally met her eyes. "I'm not going to bathe Alistair. Will, I can take care of."

"I manage quite well for myself, you know," Alistair complained. "If anyone smells, it's her. I'm not the one who grew up living in a swamp."

"I imagine we'll all smell like a campfire to everyone in Lothering," said Darius. "What do you think, boy? Do we smell alright?"

The dog, Will, yipped loudly at that, as if in acknowledgement.

"Of course he'd say so," said Alistair, now prodding the charred remains of his soup bowl from the fire with a stick. There was hardly anything left of it; at least, nothing resembling its former function. "A shame, that. You were a good bowl, friend, and shall be sorely missed."

"At last, he finds an intellectual equal," said Morrigan, folding her legs beneath her. "In a ruined soup receptacle. Truly, miracles never cease."

"We don't have to listen to that nasty old Morrigan, do we, boy?" said Alistair. The dog rolled over on its back, allowing Alistair to stroke its filthy, mud-caked belly.

_Lovely, _she thought, glaring daggers at the dirty mongrel as it reveled in its ignorant filth. Absurdly, the beast took her glare as an invitation and bounded to its feet, ambling up to her eagerly.

"Absolutely not," she declared. The dog cocked its head tentatively. "If you even _think _of placing that tongue upon my skin, creature, you shall know fear for your miserable life."

He whimpered as if he understood her words and shriveled back, slinking off to his master with his stub of a tail tucked between his legs. Try to inspire pity, would he?

_Hmph._

"Now you've hurt his feelings," Alistair complained.

"I am merely setting boundaries," she retorted, turning to address the still-cowering dog once more. "Your manipulative machinations shall not sway me, so you'd best cease now, with your hide still intact."

Will cocked his head again, as if to say, 'Who, me?' She snorted.

"I think I sense the beginnings of a beautiful friendship," said Darius, petting the dog as it settled down happily at his side.

"Oh, yes, how perceptive," Morrigan replied wryly.

Talk died down for a time, and Alistair soon retired to his tent, as was his custom. Darius tried to feed the dog a few scraps from his bowl, but the animal seemed only mildly interested. Weariness seemed on the verge of taking hold.

Morrigan sighed. "Well…Now we have a dog. And Alistair is _still _the stupidest member of the party."

"I can still hear you," Alistair called irritably.

"It would have been wasted, had you not," she called back.

* * *

Author's Notes: _This is so much fun! I hope you're enjoying reading even half as much as I'm enjoying writing this. As always, criticisms, observations, etc. are welcome. Thanks for reading!_


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